


Slow and Steady

by L_Morgan



Series: Mister Big [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three days on the trail of a serial killer, Greg finally catches a clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow and Steady

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Jadis and Starslikedust for their support, encouragement and their eagle eyes. All of the remaining mistakes are mine (other than those, I own nothing).
> 
> This story is part of a larger arc and won't make sense if read alone.

The next 72 hours passed in a blur of multiplying corpses, unmarked cars, nondescript men in equally nondescript suits, and a three hour foray into the bowels of the Home Office, accompanied by a snarling Sally Donovan on one side and a smug Sherlock Holmes on the other.

Greg glanced up from the files in front of him, and cast a baleful glance around the room. Cold cinder block walls, no windows. It looked more like a bunker than a file room, but, then again, maybe it was, given that they were 6 stories below an unmarked building at a non-disclosed location.

He’d heard stories about the Home Office, but he’d never quite believed them. And he certainly never expected to be inside the main facility just days into his job as DI. 

In fact, the minute Sherlock had identified their first and fourth victims as agents, by nothing more than the carpet fibers on their stockings and something about wedding bands on the right hand (Anderson had been arguing that the victims were all recently divorced), Greg had fully expected to have the Secret Service sweep in and commandeer the whole thing. He’d seen it happen to other DIs and, to tell the truth, he was sort of looking forward to it.

Because whoever it was that had carved these people up? He deserved to fry or spend the rest of his life in solitary confinement on some unmapped island, court case or no.

Instead, what he got was a phone call from Wilson saying that he had been granted permission - by several branches of government that were only rumored to exist - to bring two people in and to go through anything they might deem helpful to close the case. Greg, literally dumbfounded, surprised everyone, himself included, by asking Sherlock and the rookie to tag along, instead of snagging more seasoned - and one could argue, more appropriate - options. 

Despite Donovan’s and Anderson’s collective outrage, Greg knew that having Sherlock on board was probably their best bet of solving this case before the top level bureaucrats decided to stop humoring them and just simply do their thing. Besides, it would give Greg a better opportunity to assess Sherlock’s skill on a real case. True, Sherlock could pick out details and patterns at a murder scene like nobody’s business, but did he have the kind of staying power necessary to sit in a artificially lit tomb, full of dusty files and canned air, and pore over pages and pages of potential clues? 

On the one hand, the agency staffers seemed to be giving Sherlock an exceptionally wide berth, “Yes, Mr. Holmes. Of course, Mr. Holmes.” Which, although somewhat surprising, was actually pretty darned useful. On the other hand, given that Sherlock was currently sitting at the table, chin poised delicately on the back of his hands, and staring aimlessly at the wall, the jury was still out.

“What have you got?” Greg asked as he closed the file he’d been reading and reached for another. “Please tell me that you’ve figured this out already and we can go home.”

Sherlock blinked. “It’s just curious.”

“What’s curious?” Donovan snapped. “The fact that you’re here doing nothing, when there are cops - good cops - who would give their eye teeth to have this opportunity?”

“Sally,” Greg warned.

“No, not really.” Sherlock closed his eyes, laying his forefingers across his lips as if he were praying.

“What’s so curious then?” she pressed, halfway between sincere and pugnacious. 

Greg got up to go get another box of files.

“Secret agents. Serial murders. State secrets....” Sherlock trailed off into a distinct hum. “What I don’t understand is why he’s not here. Normally, something like this would make him leave his lair, unable to resist. This has his fat fingerprints all over it, yet why...?”

“Who?” Donovan demanded, interrupting Sherlock’s reverie. “The Killer? If he was here, we’d have been gone two hours ago then wouldn’t we?”

“No.” 

Sherlock watched silently as Greg returned to the table and set the next file box on an empty chair. 

“Obviously, _not_ the killer.” The words, ‘you idiot,’ hung in the air, unspoken, but not unheard. “My brother. I just don’t understand why he hasn’t shown himself. It simply doesn’t make sense....”

“What?!” Greg’s jaw dropped and the next few minutes passed as if they were underwater.

“You!” Donovan scoffed. “ _You_ have a brother?” 

“Contrary to what you and your _boyfriend to be_ would have everyone believe,” Sherlock sneered, broadcasting his disdain, “I did not crawl out from beneath a rock.”

“How come you didn’t tell me you had a brother?” Greg found himself yelling - angry for a reason he couldn’t explain. He was suddenly warm and the room, which had been perfectly comfortable just minutes earlier, felt entirely too stuffy. 

Sherlock’s eyes raked him from head to toe, as if tracking the blood flow as it rushed from his face, to his feet, and then back again.

“What, do I have something on my tie?” Greg asked, reaching up to straighten the scrap of silk that he’d been tugging at all day.

“Jesus,” Sally muttered, as she tossed her file aside and then stood to go get another stack. “I wish you _hadn_ ’t told me. I can’t imagine trying to sleep at night knowing that there are two of you.”

Greg shuddered. And as he took a deep breath, thinking he must be more tired than he thought, he recalled his Nan’s stories about geese walking over graves. ‘Bugger.’

Sherlock smirked, his eyes bright. “Problems, Lestrade?”

“No,” Greg threw himself into his chair and reached for another file. “Not at all. Now if you wouldn’t mind putting your big brain back to work so we can get out of here, I’d appreciate it.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted in what undoubtedly was intended as a blistering retort, but before he could even begin, Greg’s phone rang, cutting him off.

“What do you know?” Greg muttered, fishing his mobile out of his jacket pocket. “Saved by the bell.”

 

 

At the end of the day, their killer was a rogue agent, who really hadn’t been an agent at all, but a spy. And, perhaps not surprisingly, it was Sherlock who figured it out, after his second trip to the third victim’s flat - the third victim, who also happened to have been not only the killer’s lover, but also the daughter of a very influential member of Parliament. 

As the three of them raced through the city streets, he couldn’t help but notice how light traffic was, nor was he blind to the number of unmarked sedans on the road. And, to be honest, by the time he got there, he was pretty much resigned to what they would find: a 40-something year old Caucasian male, dead by his own hand. The only likely question would be whether he’d shot or hanged himself.

It was the latter.

All in all, a clean case. Six dead women, Sherlock had proven himself once again, and they’d gotten their killer. Or at least someone had. And Greg, of all people, had received a commendation from the big boys, the _really_ big boys, for a job well done.

The sun was just beginning to rise, and he was putting the finishing touches on the paperwork, if you could even call it that, when he heard a light knock at his door.

He glanced up and fought back a little bit of disappointment. It was Wilson.

“Come in,” he said, rising to his feet. “This is a bit weird,” he admitted as he motioned his supervisor into the guest chair.

Wilson shook his head. “Sit down before you fall down,” he said, making his way around the stacks of boxes that still filled the space between the desk and the wall. “Tired of this office already, are you Greg?” he teased. “One day on the job and you’ve already gotten a gold star from Mount High?”

Greg shook his head as he fell back into his chair. Without meaning to, he glanced ever so slightly towards the envelope - hand addressed by the commissioner, himself - that had been waiting on his desk when he had finally gotten back, sometime between midnight and two. ‘For excellent service and cooperation with broader government agencies,’ it read. ‘And for continuing to make the city of London, if not the entirety of the commonwealth, a safer place for all of her inhabitants.’

Though part of him had been ridiculously pleased, there was another part that just couldn’t help but be a little bit annoyed. Maybe because he’d gotten the impression that what the reward really was for was leading them to the right man to execute - because no way were they letting one of their own get pulled into that mess. And for keeping his mouth shut about it when he found the body.

When Greg didn’t respond, Wilson leaned forward. “Don’t let whatever’s bothering you get to you,” he said. “You’re a good officer and an excellent detective. Knowing how to play with The Powers That Be can’t hurt, nor does knowing when to keep quiet.”

Greg shook his head. “It feels a little dirty, doesn’t it? We do the legwork and they swoop in at the end and take the guy out?”

Wilson shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s not like the bastard didn’t deserve it. And, it’s worth noting that this is the first time I’ve ever seen them let us actually _do_ the legwork. And it’s certainly the first time they’ve opened their doors to the likes of us. That’s got to say something, right?”

Greg grimaced. “Well, I think it may have more to do with Sherlock than me; tell you the truth. Apparently his brother is some big wig in the government.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow, but remained silent.

“I guess I should have known,” Greg admitted. “The minute we walked in, it was, ‘Yes, Mr. Holmes. No, Mr. Holmes.’”

The old man laughed. “I can’t imagine anyone calling that kid, Mister. I bet Sally loved that.”

Feeling better than he had all morning, Greg joined him. “Actually, now that you mention it, the first time it happened, I thought she was going to swallow her tongue.”

Once their merriment settled down, Wilson started to rise. But, then, as if thinking better of it, he sank back down in the seat.

“Seriously, Greg, don’t worry about how this went down. Typically the boys in brown come in and walk all over us with little regard or consideration to Yard jurisdiction. This time was different. You did a good job and maybe, just maybe, things might continue to be different going forward.”

Greg shrugged. He wanted to believe that, but there was just something that he couldn’t quite let go. Well, there were a couple of things, one of which was tucked away in his wallet, but that - or at least he told himself - could wait. Was _going_ to wait.

“So, what’s the problem?” Wilson prodded.

“Do we really know who these people are?” he asked, knowing that he was being vague. “I mean, what do you really know about these so-called special agents?”

Wilson frowned. “To tell you the truth, all I really know is that some of them have security clearances with more digits than my National Health Card and that some of them are lackeys, decoys to keep us from really knowing who’s who or what’s what.” He shrugged. “Other than that, I don’t know much and, again, to tell you the truth, I don’t care to know. Guess I always figured my life was worth a little more than that, if you know what I mean.”

Greg nodded and decided to just ask.

What the hell, he may as well.

In for pence, in for a pound.

“Ever seen a tall ginger bloke with a beak nose among them?” Greg asked, feeling a bit bad for describing his “lover” in such unflattering terms. “Sharp dresser. I personally can’t imagine him in anything nondescript _or_ brown, but - ”

“Young?” Wilson interrupted. “Eyes like a wolverine? Carries an umbrella more often than not?”

Greg shut his eyes and chuckled softly, more at himself than at Wilson’s even less than unflattering description. “That would be him.”

Wilson settled back into the chair. “Not a decoy, nor a lackey.”

Greg nodded. “I guess I sort of had that much figured out on my own. So, he’s one of the ones with the security clearance higher than my mortgage?”

“No,” Wilson shook his head. “He’s a bit different. From what I understand he doesn’t have security clearance - he’s the one who provides it.”

Greg blinked.

“I hear tell he’s so far in the Queen’s pocket that sometimes Phillip’s not even sure whose hand he’s holding. But then again...” Wilson leaned forward, as if letting Greg in on a state secret of his own. “...I’ve also heard that it’s the other way around.” Wilson’s eyes darkened.

“Don’t get on his bad side, Greg,” he warned. “If he’s involved in this one, you really don’t want to know and it’s in your best interest, and mine, not to ask too many questions.”

“But who is he?” Greg pushed. “I mean, I don’t need a name, but what does he do?” And then the real question, unspoken, ‘What kind of man is he?’

“I’ve never met him, myself,” Wilson admitted. “But you hear things: The Ice Man, Mister Big, The Executioner, The Wizard. I figure half of it’s bunk - a bunch of jealous staffers who thought they’d get promoted only to find themselves usurped by some whipper snapper straight out of university. But I’ll tell you, Greg, he’s smart and he’s careful. He’s methodical and meticulous. When he wants something done, it gets done. When he wants someone gone, they’re gone. And it’s not sloppy; it’s precise. Very precise.” Wilson sat back in his chair. “That said, no one knows his real name and he doesn’t have a title. Rumor has it he holds a minor position in the traffic office, but if he’s a traffic minister, I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

“Why so curious, Greg?” he asked after a few minutes of silence. “Something tells me you’ve crossed paths with the man. What’s up?”

Greg rested his hand in his head, more to shield his expression than anything else. “If we’re thinking of the same bloke, then, yea, we’ve crossed paths a couple of times.”

He glanced up to see a look skitter across Wilson’s face; he couldn’t read it.

“If you don’t mind me asking...” Wilson leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk that had once been his. “...how does a newly minted DI cross paths for a man who is - for all intents and purposes - the British Government?”

Greg breathed out; it was almost a laugh. “Very carefully, sir. Very, very carefully.”

 

 

Four hours had passed since his impromptu meeting with Wilson ended. In that time, he’d delivered the paperwork/novella for filing, he’d widened the path in the boxes from the door to his desk, and he’d even filled out the forms to make Sally Donovan an official member of his team.

He’d also polished off the last of the roast turkey, shoved the quilted blue lunch sack into his filing cabinet, and pulled his wallet out and laid it next to the landline on his otherwise barren desk.

Taking a deep breath, he realized that he’d been in the same change of clothes for close to two work weeks, and he was beginning to smell - the scent of Mycroft’s high end soap a distant memory. In its place the stench of too much sweat, too much coffee, too few bummed cigarettes, and not enough sleep.

Sniffing under his arm, he re-evaluated the situation; he reeked.

Greg closed his eyes and thought about what it meant that he hadn’t even seen the inside of his apartment in almost a week. That he’d barely worn his own clothes, and he most certainly hadn’t been sleeping in his own bed.

His entire world, from the moment that he’d stepped into that car, had been turned upside down.

‘Not to mention inside out,’ his inner voice chimed in helpfully.

He really, really didn’t want to think about how it was that Sherlock Holmes seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his head.

Just as he didn’t want to have to think about how Mycroft H - his mind stuttered to a halt just thinking about it.

Taking another deep breath, he reached for his wallet. He pulled out the business card that he’d tucked away, sight unseen, just over three days ago. But before he allowed himself to actually look at it, he forced himself to finish the thought.

Just to see if he could.

Mycroft Hol -

He took another breath, calling up an image of an ironic grin, elegant fingers, and calculating eyes.

_My, haughty and posh as he swept up the umbrella and struck the glass that separated them from the driver._

_My, dressed in jeans and a King’s College sweatshirt, shooting for assured, but landing just this side of arrogant._

_My, rolling him into a mattress as comfortable as Greg had ever experienced, then leaving him there after whispering words in a language that Greg hadn’t even been able to recognize._

Then, later, _Mycroft, standing at attention in the elevator, eyes averted, knuckles white._  

_Mycroft, toasting him with a glass of wine the color of rubies._

_Mycroft, kneeling beside him, naked as the day he was born, then reaching for a robe the minute he realized Greg was awake._

_Mycroft, handing him a cup of coffee, hiding in a suit two sizes too big._

_Mycroft, sliding the very card that Greg held in his hand across what, at that moment, seemed like an impossible divide._

The very same card that he had yet to turn over, but knew, as well as he knew his own name, what he’d find:

**_Mycroft Holmes._ **

That was it. No title. No address. No explanation.

Just a name and a number.

Greg flipped the fine card stock over and over in his callous-worn hands, much in the same way that Mycroft - Mycroft Holmes, brother of Sherlock, the world’s only consulting detective, and Greg’s own personal pain in the arse - had turned him upside down against the backdrop of his 1000 thread cotton bedsheets.

Feeling equal parts sick to his stomach and foolish, Greg shook his head.

He glanced back down at the card, the elegance of the script an ideal accent against the perfectly weighted paper, the lightly beveled edge the consummate frame.

Even if Greg hadn’t just been told in pretty much no uncertain terms that this man was the most dangerous man in all Britain - if someone had just handed him the card - he would have known.

And no matter how much he wanted to deny it, there was no way around it. His own silly, half formed fantasies, let alone his memories that had kept him going over the last 76 hours, aside - he was impressed. Well and truly impressed.

Whistling softly, Greg turned the card over one more time before tucking it back into his wallet for safekeeping.

As he slid his wallet into his crumpled jacket and stood to go, he glanced at the phone.

He wasn’t going to lie. He was tempted - God, was he tempted.

But despite what Sherlock was so fond of telling him, he wasn’t a complete idiot. Because even though he apparently wasn’t a good enough detective so see what, at least in retrospect, seemed so bloody obvious, he _was_ smart enough to keep his mouth shut until he knew what he was going to say.

That is, what he wanted to say.

And then, once he said it, what the hell he was going to do about it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd also like to thank everyone who has left kudos and/or commented on this story: you are wonderful motivators! Thanks for all of the encouragement and feedback!


End file.
